


Of Cabbages and Elves

by Kitt_Otter



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Family, Friendship, Humor, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitt_Otter/pseuds/Kitt_Otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gamgee household receives two unexpected and hungry visitors. Sam would prefer to play host, but his mayoralty propels him into a mystery of a missing Bywater lad, and he finds that even after 14 years, Sharkey's crimes still have echoes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Upon a Night Both Dark and Stormy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Puppy Perception](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/970) by Moth. 



The hill of papers never failed to give Sam the same measure of dread as had his first sight of the Mountains.

“Or a pinch of it, leastways.” 

Sam flexed his back and uncorked his ink, after a solid ten minutes of contemplating on the addressees. 

Since receiving the mayoralty from Will Whitfoot, the letters brought in by postmen had risen fearsomely, two armfuls a week. Sam had never been good at stringing together words, least of all with a pen. He considered it a deep and elusive art that but a few bright and industrious hobbits like Mr. Bilbo or Mr. Frodo could rightly claim mastery of. Sam was satisfied to produce a dry minimum of words that could get his meaning across. 

The fact was, precious few of the letters stacked tidily on his desk each week had to do with his dubious title of Mayor. Most of them were owed to his prominence as a cultivator of flora. Sam’s prime concern was nurturing the countryside back from Saruman’s deliberate demolition, and his change of hat from Gardener to Mayor changed that not a bit. 

He sifted through the batch. Mr. Brownfoot wanted his goat to free range, while his lawn-conscious neighbor did not. Mr. Boffin of Frogmorton gave his weekly sampling of advice on the fostering of tomatoes. And Mrs. Dorris Hornblower had rabbits in her cabbages again. Finally he held an envelope emblazoned with RECONSIDER, the final R smudged to the edge. He sliced it with his letter-opener, and a fat yellow parchment fell out, spelling out in great detail why reconsidering was his only choice. He scanned it:

_Mayor:_  
_…Remember the Sort of hobbit he is and the Sort he’s traipsed with before… you will realize you are making a mistake!_  
_…Reply im-mediately…  
_ _Ordin Burrows_

Sam sighed.

The _he_ was old Martimus Chubb, holder of a number of fertile weed plantations, and a hobbit of renowned Inhospitable Proclivities. Once he had chased a postman a whole mile down Bywater with a dustpan for disturbing a late first breakfast. And common knowledge among the local lads was that he sat by his kitchen window and flung live embers at passersby who dared tread beside his pampered rose hedge. 

But what young Ordin Burrows was on about (and indeed going on about for the last month in Sam’s post) was Martimus’ son, Adulfus. The young Chubb had been unseen, or _vanished_, as his friends claimed, for a considerable number of weeks. Martimus, true to his character, was not cooperative with Adulfus’ inquiring friends – he barred them from coming in, saying Adulfus was off visiting or he was ill, and a vast array of other excuses, typically ending in their being chased off the property. 

Ordin Burrows was going so far as to suggest, since after all, Adulfus was not on the best of terms with his father, _that_ was the open fact at all the taverns; well, he suggested actions which were unspeakable. Sam stamped out those repulsive thoughts. It seemed obvious to him that Adulfus had at last gone too far in his parental defiance and was put under strict supervision – or even run off – and the family was hushing it up. Even as Mayor, and First Shirriff by extension, Sam had no right to intrude into the Chubbs’ affairs, and that should have put the matter on the shelf. The problem was to convince Burrows. 

Sam wrote in his round slow hand a two-sentence reply. He knew he’d receive another extensive letter in three days. 

He squinted to make out his own words. It was suddenly awful dark for so early in the evening. He would need light to finish. He no sooner coaxed the ancient desk’s drawer open and gripped a candle stick when… **crack… BOOM?!**!!**

Little Pippin’s shrieks and Merry’s whoops followed immediately. Sam’s hand retracted and his elbow clipped hard on the drawer.

The windowpane drummed. Beyond it light flickered, coupled with a teasing rumble. Baby Hamfast wailed two rooms over. Rosie’s _hush-hush_ reached his ears clearly as his study’s door flew open and Rose-lass sprung in. One flash of yellow curls and blue skirts and she was under his desk. 

Nursing his elbow, Sam pushed aside his papers and scooted out his chair to peer under the desk.

He clicked his tongue. “Can this be? My Rose-lass is too brave to be teased by a little thunder.” 

In a manner of speaking, that was true. All the Gamgee children took shelter in their parents’ room during storms, all but Rose. She’d sleep straight through them. 

Her yellow hair spilling around her face, she wagged her head. “No!” she mouthed. “I’m hiding.”

“Why is that?” he whispered. 

“Someone was looking in the window.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I saw someone in the window.”

“Rose, there will be no fibbing in this house. Are you telling Sam-dad the truth?”

“_Yes_, Dada, I saw him!” Her eyes were wide and obstinate.

“Well, then, Sam-dad will consider it.” 

Sam felt a small unpleasant stir in his gut. He was reminded of the Black Riders long ago prowling about Hobbiton, and how he, Frodo, and Pippin had just by luck eluded them; they’d been so careless and clueless. Even beyond the sniffing and the black faceless hoods, most awful had been the Riders’ dreadful piercing call, one that never should have fouled the pure air of the Shire. The memory sent convulsions down his spine.

But that was absurd! No lurker of any mischief could rightly be compared to them. 

Still, it remained, Rose had never been so insistent about an untruth before…

The door rang. His heart jumped, then settled slowly back into place. Hamfast still cried heartily from the nursery.

“I’ll answer, Rosie!” Sam yelled.

He peeked back under the desk. “Will you come along, lass? We may find out who your specter is.”

Rose shook her head in an equivocal yes-no.

Sam corked his inkbottle; he hadn’t much wanted to deal with Ordin anyway. The bell yammered again. He dashed out of the room. Likely it was a marm caught in the storm on her way back from marketing. Little Rose shadowed him. She liked visitors, but only if she saw them, and they didn’t see her. 

At the next firm ring, Sam suspected the bell had tore from the chain. “I’m coming! I’m coming…!” He opened the door. 

A blast of wet air. Curtains and curtains of rain obscured even his proud white fence. Nothing moved and he heard only relentless drumming of rain on the hillside. He squinted through the water avalanching over the lintel and made out a very broad nose. He looked up into a pair of familiar dark eyes.

He yelped and widened the entrance. “Good heavens, Mr. Gimli! Come in! What brings you here? Come in, quickly!”

“Thank you, Master Samwise. I had hoped to!” His breath was a mist. Gimli ‘hemmed and said louder, as though to the fence’s benefit, “He’s taken care of it all!” 

“It all…?” Sam started. Gimli shook his head, showering him with water. 

Sam stepped aside and Gimli scooted in and closed the round door. He took great care to wipe his boots on the mat, looking apologetically at the small pond he brought onto Mistress Rose’s immaculate floor. 

And there they stood, drinking in the other’s appearance. It had been a long fourteen years since their parting by Isengard. 

Sam recalled the tears spilling down his cheeks as he rode off with Frodo, Aragorn, Gandalf, and the others. Legolas and Gimli had stood back, waving goodbye, for as long as Sam was able to watch them over his shoulder. 

Gimli had said they ‘may yet meet at times.’ Sam had clung to these words, and now here he stood in Bag End’s front hall. What Gimli was thinking Sam could not guess. Suddenly the dwarf seized his hand and pumped it, beaming.

“You are a sight! A small ways rounder, excepting, but my dear hobbit, quite unchanged!”

Gimli had changed, though in a subtle manner. The ruddy hair had gone grey around the edges. His face had a careworn wrinkle more, and perhaps, now that he had settled down, the hardships of the War and the Quest had finally caught up with him. Yet the coal black eyes held a deeper reservoir of sparkle, and he still possessed in profusion a trait that had always impressed Sam – an amiable and unquashable dignity. 

“You’ve not lost your magnificence at all, dear Gimli!” 

Gimli still clamped his hand warmly, retracting his arm at last only to smack his forehead. 

“Forgive me, I’m in a distracted state. Have you a back door?” 

“Yes,” said Sam. “There’s a cellar, not a door proper, but…”

“Excellent! Mind you unlocking it?”

“It’s not likely to be locked.” Sam performed a mental headscratch. “But I can check it.”

“I’ll check, Dada!” 

And Rose was gone before Sam had even time to think to introduce her. 

He felt as though he had a thousand questions to ask, several more hundred things he could say, but could think of not one. Meanwhile, Gimli was a through and through dripping dwarf and his sopping beard was a sorry sight. Sam gave himself a silent scolding for not offering sooner for Gimli to hang his cloak and hood onto a free hook. 

Gimli gladly complied, first easing down two seam-bulging, clanking rucksacks. Under his cloak he wore a splendid blue shirt with gold buttons and diamonds embedded in the collar. He then pat down his beard (laced with many a gold ring and sapphire), and lastly removed his mud-weighted boots, revealing red stockings not all too cleaner. 

“There’s a fire in the parlour,” Sam fussed. “You’ll be dry as any before Mistress Rose has her supper laid out… here she is! Rosie, we’ve a visitor. This is Master Gimli… and Gimli, Mistress Rose.”

Rosie walked in, baby Hamfast hiccupping over her shoulder. Her lips parted at the sight of the saturated but fabulously arrayed dwarf. 

Gimli bowed low, nose almost scraping the tiled floor. 

“At your service, Lady Rose.”

Rosie curtsied, with (Sam thought) a comely blush on her cheeks. “I am pleased to meet you at last, sir. My Sam’s spoken highly on your appreciation of ale and warm food.” 

“In no detail is he mistaken,” said Gimli, giving another, though smaller, bow. As he rose, he gave Sam a laudatory nudge, and Sam blushed in his turn.

“Well, now, who is this lad?” Gimli kept at a curious, but drip-safe distance.

“Hamfast Gamgee,” said Rosie proudly, turning the hiccupping bundle to face him. 

“Aa,” said Hamfast. He stretched his chubby fists toward the dazzling beard. 

Gimli grinned. “He has an astonishing likeness to his father already.”

“Yes, all the boys do,” sighed Rosie. “Save Pippin, quite the face of his Grandad Cotton.” 

“_All_ of them, then?” Gimli jabbed Sam with another nudge. 

Sam was without words. Rosie unsuccessfully hid a giggle.

The dwarf then looked down at the mud and water he had shed. “I apologize for this unwholesome intrusion, Lady Rose. Bring me a mop and I shall remedy this mess.” 

Rosie shook her head. “No need, Master Gimli, thank ‘ee. Please change into something dry.” Her eyes said, a guest mopping? Unthinkable! “Sam, you were showing him to the guest room?” 

“Yes, of course…” Sam attempted to lift one of Gimli’s rucksacks and found with an _oomf_ he could not. 

“Easy there, lad.” Gimli took it up with his right arm, and pulled up the other rucksack with his left. 

“Come into the dining room when you’re ready.” Rosie turned, her intent on the kitchen. 

“Did you come alone?” Sam said as they followed her out. But Gimli hadn’t the chance to answer; they did not even reach the hallway. 

For a moment, Sam thought the door had burst and let in the storm – the floor shook, the air thrummed with pounds, booms, and squeals. They almost found themselves mowed over by three streaks of curly hair.

“Dada! Rose said! Rose said!” Merry panted. 

“Is that ‘im, Dada?” Pippin squeaked.

“Can we see your axe? Can we?” Merry shrilled. He ran after Pippin and Pippin ran after Merry, all around the dwarf. Goldy was too small to know what the commotion was about and clapped her hands and toddled along with her older brothers all the same. 

Elanor had deserted her stove-watching duties and in alternations gasped and gaped. 

Rosie’s attempts to round up her brood failed. It would have been simpler to make the storm mind. She turned to her husband, who only grinned. Her expression turned horrorstruck. 

Gimli looked immensely pleased; he added to the commotion with his wall-shaking laughs. He tried to answer their rapid-fire questions, saw it was a loss, and instead whispered loudly, “How many Gamgees have we? Five now… or was that six?” 

Sam had thought the tumult in his hole had reached its peak, but he was mistaken. The floor pounded again and the children ran aside. A roar like a hurricane swept into the front hall. It was bounding toward the master of Bag End. 

Sam planted his feet before the onslaught and extended a finger. He shouted, “_Sit, Legolas!_” 

All the children snapped into silence. 

Gimli’s eyes bulged. He turned around, looked right, left, then cautiously around Sam. There, panting and grinning, bottom planted firmly on the tile floor, was a bearish specimen of a dog. It sat almost the hobbit’s height. It wafted its nose the dwarf’s way, thumping its brush-like tail. 

Gimli’s wide eyes pinched shut and he slapped his knee, laughing so hard the dog retracted its tongue and cocked its head. The children stared. 

“Pray… don’t tell me…” the dwarf sputtered. “I’m the cat!”

Rosie and Sam had a silent exchange. 

“Frodo-lad named him, you’ll have to take it up with him,” said Sam. 

Rosie seized the opportunity. “Now, children, let Master Gimli get to his room.”

Merry, Pippin, and Goldy may or may not have heard. They stood idle now, their exclamations replaced by wordless round mouths of awe. 

Suddenly the dog Legolas woofed and padded out the front hall. From the hallway, Rose-lass shouted, “Dada! Dada! Look who came through the cellar! _No-o, Legolas!_” 

A distant something crashed to the floor. Another much nearer crash followed it – Gimli could no longer bear it. His rucksacks shed behind him, he had doubled over, red-faced, at the mercy of his mirth.


	2. Hundreds and Hundreds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so I didn't realize till today that after having it quite finished for three years I never posted chapter 2 here. Yeah, sorry! If you read chapter 1 before 13 Dec 2013, do note that I've gone back and revised a few things. Chapter 3 is on its way.

“You’ve killed my companion,” Legolas said sorrowfully.

He jerked his head to avoid collision with a chandelier. 

The four-legged Legolas, tail high, followed at the two-legged’s heels. 

“I am not killed,” Gimli insisted.

The young Gamgees had circled Gimli and had not heard Legolas enter. They looked up at the strange voice and as one shrank back. They had never before seen someone brushing the ceiling beams with the back of his head. Let alone ever seen 

“An elf!” Elanor squeaked. She slapped her hand over her mouth, face red. 

Legolas stooped ever lower and gave Sam and Rosie an elegant bow. He smiled at the children, and Elanor’s red deepened. Her siblings gaped. 

Sam grasped for words and missed. As substitute, he patted Legolas-dog, who with a driveling tongue was demanding the praise he was owed. Rosie alone kept her composure. 

“How do you do, Master Legolas?”

“Very well, if very wet, my lady.” 

A small storm erupted behind the elf. 

“_Dada!_ Legolas was bad.” Little Rose stomped in, lower lip pouted, her little fists on her hips.

Sam hesitated. “The tailed one, dear?” 

“This one, I fear,” said Legolas, pressing his chest. “She commanded me sit, so I did, and the hound did on me likewise.” 

“But _you’re_ not bad,” said Rose, sounding as though she thought the elf was being silly. “But Legolas, he’s bad, _always_… took’d Dolly and buried her three times!” she explained.   
Legolas knelt. A small glimmer shone in his eyes.

“My lady, for rescuing me from the storm’s wrath, I owe you my gladness and wellbeing. Since I cannot repay you suitably, consider me your servant forever.” 

There was a strange silence for a moment before Rose's reply.

“Forever is… almost one-hundred years, isn’t it?” 

“Something near,” said Legolas. 

Rose-lass nodded, content. 

“Are you well, Master Dwarf?” said Legolas.

Gimli found his feet, again the pillar of dignity. “Very.”

Gimli was still damp. And though Legolas’ hair was matted down, his rich green clothes were dry. It appeared elven cloth was more successful at repelling water than dwarven. 

In that brief moment of silent awe, Merry had again warmed up his tongue. “Are you really Legolas? Did you bring the Lórien bow? Can I see it? Where’s Arod? Can I--”

Rosie gave him a look. “I think we need to let Masters Gimli and Legolas rest.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” said Legolas and then addressed Merry. “Yes, I am Legolas. Yes, I keep the bow with me as a keepsake. If your parents agree, I shall show it to you later. I let Arod run free fifteen years ago in Rohan.” He waved to Rose-lass and followed into the hallway Sam, Gimli, and the hound, who sniffed in the wake of Gimli’s red stockings. 

“I don’t mean to be rude, dear Legolas,” Sam exclaimed. “I am glad to see you, as well!”

“As am I, Samwise!” Legolas added earnestly, “I hope this is not inconvenient.”

“No! Quite not. This hole is used to unexpected guests.”

The hallway was straight as a knife, but rounded to a half-cylinder at the ceiling, supported by hefty arching beams of dark thick-grained wood. The floor was tiled and carpeted. Little towns and farms of wooden blocks and knitted animals hedged the way, while tasteful knickknacks and generations-old mathoms graced the walls. Walking alongside the elf and dwarf, Sam was brought back to their night-marches in the Misty Mountains. “You two have changed little, almost none at all,” he said, more to himself. 

“But I’d say you have changed some,” said Legolas. The precarious low ceiling did not seem to bother him. “Half owed to appearance. You’ve been fed well and that’s no wonder – you need your strength. I envy you.” 

Sam looked over, then up, forgetting Legolas’ height. “Why is that?”

Legolas gestured to the hall, at the scattered blocks, the toy animals. 

Sam couldn’t imagine envy in Legolas and could not see any such emotion in his face. Always too honest, elves, and they never can explain what it is they mean! And whatever mood possessed Legolas, it vanished like candle flame in a breeze; he was smiling to himself again. Yes, too honest… and too here-then-there… Now, dwarves were honest in that they plainly told you they will tell you nothing and their moods were steady as stone. Sam found himself studying Gimli, wondering what he, a most important dwarf now, thought of the cluttered old hole. But the furry visage revealed nothing. 

They halted by the round door to the guest room. It was the opening the dog had been waiting for. His back bristled and he dived on Gimli’s stocking, digging his teeth into the loose end. Gimli had a moment of perilous wobbling.

“Legolas, heel!” Sam grabbed the giant hound’s collar, till with a canine sigh, he released the red material.

Legolas started and shook his head. “Might I ask--”

“Frodo-lad. His idea.”

“I see. He’s a good ear for names.” 

Gimli forgave the affliction to his sock in his delight at the little guest room, decorated in practical hobbit-fashion with a many-colored quilt, carved candle-holders, and jugs on the walls and dressers. And best of all, a snug fireplace, stocked with timber ready to be lit. He turned to Sam and beamed. “All the comforts a dwarf could desire.” 

“We can fix up the parlour for you, Legolas. Everything to you is shrunk, I suppose,” said Sam, pink with the strain of holding back the hound, whose snout was wandering toward the dwarf’s feet. 

“Oh no! I can sleep anywhere, just as well against the wall. You need not trouble yourself.” 

Sam reminded him that standing was the problem.

Legolas nodded, nonplused. He said he’d work out something. Then he spoke in his odd sylvan tongue to the hound. He sat down and thumped his tail without a fuss. 

Gimli quickly kindled a fire. Legolas claimed one of the two rucksacks. They wanted to wring out their belongings, and Sam left them. Legolas-dog set himself as guard, curling up at the door, head on paws. 

Sam thought, speaking of Frodo-lad, where was he? He couldn’t believe Frodo had not heard the uproar in the front hall and not come to investigate. 

He crossed the hall to a closed door and gripped the handle in the door’s middle. It creaked open. The room was dark, only phantom shapes of toys and two large lumps that were Merry and Frodo’s beds broke out from the shadows. Sam widened the door a bit more, allowing the rectangle of light to hit the farther bed. 

He expected to find Frodo asleep. Not so.

The lad lay with back on the quilt and legs slumped over the side. His feet swung with careless gusto. He stared up, counting the dark grains in the ceiling, for what Sam could tell. 

Sam swung the door fully open now, and suddenly the dam on his words crumbled. 

“Frodo! You must come out! Come and see – you will think your dad is telling tales – they are here! The famous Legolas Greenleaf and yes, Frodo, Gimli son of Glóin himself! The very same your dad and Mr. Frodo journeyed with all those years back. Up now! You can meet them in a minute!”

Frodo addressed a fly on the beam. “They’re not real.”

“You’ll feel foolish saying that, Frodo,” Sam said sternly. “After you’ve seen them with your own eyes.”

“They’re stories,” he said, still to the fly.

“Are you unwell, Frodo-lad?” said Sam. 

The boy shook his head. “I’m tired.”

“You’ll be rested enough to come out, then, in ten minutes?”

“I’ll be tired.”

“There will be no more of this nonsense. You’ll do them a disfavor if you don’t come out to meet them.”

The fly hummed to the window and investigated the pane. Frodo’s eyes followed. 

Sam sighed, but kept his voice grim. “You _will_ come out, in any case. You will not be upsetting Mother Rose.” 

He shut the door and slumped to the wall. Frodo’d been that way lately… since Yuletime… no, before. Sam did a mental count of his fingers, yes, early autumn, when the Goodbodys moved into no. 3 New Row after old Mrs. Rumble moved out to live with her daughter. 

Once Frodo’s were the roundest eyes at a reading of the Red Book. He’d plead to hear the Moria parts, cheered when Gimli or any dwarf came in. He was most partial for dwarves. He’d handle with reverence every item of the modest collection of dwarf-made curios in the hole. With Merry and Rose he’d play Three Hunters, wielding a stick with an old pillow case stiffened with leaves tied at the end, which passed for an axe. 

Now he wouldn’t come to a reading even if it meant bed early. He no longer joined his siblings in romping about the Hill for orcs. The role of Gimli had been passed to little Pippin.

Sam couldn’t pull the whole story from him, but he knew Frodo’d been teased by the local boys – the Goodbody twins came to mind as the main culprits – because of his steady talk of balrogs, rings, and walking trees. Sam smiled suddenly, remembering how it was to barrage the other boys with nonstop ‘oulandish nonsense.’ He never minded their eye rolls and banter much. But Frodo took those things harder. 

It hurt Sam to see his son regard the Red Book as a batch of fairy tales. But he knew Frodo’s heart was still nestled in the Book’s pages… it just needed some stirring…

“This will do the trick,” Sam thought outloud. “He can’t deny them with his eyes and those Goodbody lads will be forgotten.” 

The dog gave him a doleful look, then rested his head back between his paws.

___

“Goodness! You eat as healthily as the children!” said Rosie. Her wide eyes approved.

“All owed to the artistry of your cooking,” said Gimli with an appreciative smack. He was on his third serving and not slowing.

Only Legolas had passed him, presently advancing through his fifth plate of potatoes. “The kitchens of Imladris are legend, the taverns of Dale are rumored to be magicked. This I can say: your cooking surpasses them all.” He promptly refilled his mouth. 

The two had been trying all evening to outdo the other in the flirtation of Mistress Rose. 

She laughed, secretly very pleased. She’d stretched a meal for eight hobbits into eight plus two ravenous outlanders and scoured the hole of all dust and dirt, all at an hour’s notice to boot.

To be fair, she’d had the help of her ten extra hands. As soon as her guests had left the front hall, Elanor began mopping the floor, Merry set up the table, Rose-lass sliced roots and vegetables, and Pippin with Goldy’s ‘help’ gathered up all the balls, blocks, and animals from the passageway, all with only Rosie’s lightest prods. 

The toweled-down Legolas and Gimli had emerged to a different Bag End. 

But they still had needed to endure a half-hour of painful waiting as the smells of roasting turkey and potatoes teased their noses. It was a suffering well-rewarded. 

The table was magnificent, laid with a crisp white tablecloth – the good one. It was piled almost to the point of buckling with a golden turkey, platters of steaming rolls, dishes of lightly crusted roasted beans and potatoes, bowls and bowls of gravies, butter, and preserves. The butter-fried mushrooms had center place. Blue and yellow wildflowers Elanor had picked that morning splashed the table with color. 

The peace was threatened by the question of who would get to sit by the elf and dwarf. They finally agreed on turns, and hobbits had plenty enough occasions in a given day at table for each young Gamgee to have at least two goes. That meal, little Rose settled by her indebted elf, who lounged in a corner on a low stool so he could tuck his long legs to the side. Then sat Goldy at one head, and Sam took the seat next to her, a strategic location to cut up her food. 

Merry and Pippin flanked Gimli. Merry asked him between bites for his favorite color (blue – no gold – no, difficult question, that), how many axes he had (five battle axes, presently not in use), and the most pieces he’d ever a cut a goblin into (Gimli made out his mouth was full of potatoes). 

Rosie took the other table head to keep near baby Hamfast in his wheeled crib. He lay on his back, talking in a secret language to his toes. By Rose-lass’s other side sat Elanor, sneaking Legolas shy worshipful glances. Frodo’s seat on her left was vacant. 

Sam was irritated, but he did not want to create a scene during the chaos of setting out supper. But after supper, now… the boy was stubborn, goodness knew from where he’d gotten it. 

He excused Frodo’s absence with a ‘he’s not feeling well.’ Legolas and Gimli gave their sympathy, but Rosie was aware of what that meant and silently agreed to let Sam handle it. 

Around mouthfuls, Legolas and Gimli wanted to know everything. So did Sam, but first he wanted to clear up one matter.

“Why through the cellar?”

“My horse and Gimli’s pony needed stabling. That task Gimli left me – wisely,” said Legolas. “And I wanted not to be seen on the road.”

Sam shredded Goldy’s turkey. “Of course, I see. The King’s Ban. But… Legolas, you’re not one the Big Folk, so to speak. I don’t think it holds for elves...” 

“In that sense you are right,” said Legolas, buttering a roll with a flash of his wrist. “But if the folk of the Shire are any way like to my own folk, tongues will wag and I will become twenty Big Folk riding upon dragons.” 

Sam confessed that was true. 

“So we believe we’ve not aroused the entire countryside,” said Gimli. “A merry time, that was. Would have saved me a few grey hairs had the elf stood not so unnaturally high. But I do think…” He appraised Legolas’ plate over his mug. “Given a week here, he’ll be able to pass off as a largish hobbit.” 

“But Mr. Gimli!” Merry broke in. 

“Say ‘pardon,’ Merry,” said Rosie.

Merry continued without taking a breath, “But, pardon, Mr. Gimli! Did you come all the way from Gondor just to visit us? Did you? That’s far away. Hundreds of miles! You have to cross mountains! And rivers! Dad showed me. He’s _hundreds_ of maps. Some in red and gold ink! But Mr. Gimli, you didn’t come,” Merry lowered his voice a tad, “You didn’t come treasure-hunting, did you? Coz that happened exactly to Mr. Bilbo when the dwarves came here that one time in April and…they…” He took a gulp of air. 

“Well.” Gimli glanced at Legolas. “I can’t say anything without Masters Meriadoc and Peregrin.”

“It is treasure!” Merry bounced on his chair. 

“Well, not quite, not quite.” Gimli tugged a ring in his beard, distressed as to how to answer with tact. All eyes were on him. 

“If we told all now, we would have no surprise later,” said Legolas, engrossed in the study of the small flowers etched on his silver fork. 

“Surprise!” Merry’s shout was joined by Pippin, Rose, and Elanor’s. 

“Yes, or, well…” Gimli shot Legolas another look. 

“I can answer Merry’s first question.” The elf’s bright, amused voice fixed everyone’s attention. “Yes, visiting the Shire was our first interest. We’d planned on it for many years. But one thing leads to another, or so it’s said. We’ll stay for as long as we’re not nuisances to you. And then we will press on west.” He waved in the direction. “To the Towers, the Blue Mountains, the Havens--” 

Sam’s chair scraped back and he leaped to his feet. “You’re not leaving!?”

“No,” Legolas said gravely. “No, I’ll not leave this shore as long as my friends remain here. I swear to that, Samwise.” 

Sam sat down, blushing. Legolas gave him a small smile and his tone brightened again, and everyone forgot Sam’s outburst. He hoped. “This is how our journey came about: this past winter Gimli and I made a bargain. If we survived the ale of Lord Faramir…”

“Nigh didn’t.” Gimli shivered. “He’s been experimenting. But while he can explain the brewing process with a scholar’s precision, implementing it goes over his head.” 

“Yes, but we did survive. So Gimli agreed to accompany me to Mithlond and I to his relations in Ered Luin--”

“And any other business… Legolas wants to keep it secret – err, a surprise,” grunted Gimli. 

“How was the journey…” Elanor spoke. Now the eyes were on her. She almost didn’t continue, till she looked into Legolas’ kindly interested face. She took a deep breath. “I mean, when did you start… I mean, it’d take a long time, and there’s so much that can happen in-between…” 

“We started early in the year. We would have started before Yule, but even in the south the winter came harsh and early. We counted on spring breaking the chill before we came too far north.”

“But not too much that the roads thawed to mud…” added Gimli.

And they talked of soupy roads, stubborn horses, and the inconvenient fallen bough.

Elanor’s eyes glassed over. “I wish I could follow the road on and on.” The awareness of their gazes hit her again. “Um, you’re lords of Ithilien and the Glittering Caves, aren’t you? Mustn’t someone take care of them?” 

“My nephew, with the guidance of his father, under the advice of my sister,” said Legolas. 

“For what may arise, my brother,” said Gimli. “He won’t be one to preside idly over the Cave’s ruination. I hope. We discovered a new system of caverns ere I left… ”

“He won’t, I’m sure – what do you call it – chisel the wrong stones,” Legolas said airily. 

Gimli made no response. The table was silent until Mistress Rose slyly lifted her eyes.

“Now, Master Gimli,” she said. “I don’t mean any impertinence. But I have wondered, do you have a Misses?” 

“Ah, that.” The dwarf tapped his nose. “Is a secret.”

“You are quite fond of secrets.” Rosie laughed. They turned to Gondor doings as the plates emptied. Gimli might have taken the conversation to the repairing of Minas Tirith’s walls in gory detail, but Legolas redirected him to the juicier tale of the completion of the Gate. 

Aragorn had made a great to-do about it, Gimli explained, not caring to mask his pride as Chief Engineer. There was some tipsiness among the elves of Ithilien and the dwarves in the square… which erupted into a battle of singing… Queen Arwen fled, saying the temptation to join them was most unqueenly. But Aragorn stayed on, declaring it was his duty to preside over the duration of the feast. And no voice rose louder than his.

“Is Arwen very pretty, Master Gimli?” said Rose-lass.

“Very. A darker Lady Galadriel – hairwise, that’s to say. And she’s some ways merrier, some ways sadder.” Gimli paused to think. 

“But the surprise…” started Merry. 

Rosie had vanished from the room a minute before, and now re-appeared balancing two pies. Gimli hurried to her and took one. The first was blackberry topped with a golden crust, flaky and buttery, dusted with tiny diamonds of sugar. Amber juices had welled through the neat slits in the top crust and crystallized into rolling ribbons. The second was strawberry of the plumpest and reddest berries, dappled with cream. But the Gamgee children scarcely paid their afters mind; their eyes were kept occupied while Legolas downed three liberal-sized slices.

Merry lowered his fork enough to talk around. “But about the--!”

“Yes, Merry, I will write to Masters Meriadoc and Peregrin tonight,” said Sam. 

“We can go berry-picking!” Pippin swung his arms and had a perilous adventure with his cup. 

Ignoring this, Rosie said, “We’ll see.” Visits from the tall and rather burly hobbits usually brought raucous berry-picking, chaotic mushroom hunting, or disorderly sled rides. Rosie was fond of them, but found she was rather thankful when they left and peace was restored.

“You _do_ like berries?” Elanor said earnestly. 

Very much, Legolas and Gimli affirmed. 

“I eated a berry with my nose. Oncet,” Goldy declared and demonstrated with a strawberry. 

“Yes you did, dear,” Sam said and firmly wiped her face.

___

After supper, Sam checked up on Frodo and found he really was asleep. He sighed. “What’ll I do with him?”

Goldy and Hamfast needed putting to bed, a task that required the attention of both parents. In the meantime, Legolas and Gimli kept the other children entertained with exaggerated tales of their exploits. Pippin trembled with excitement because he had never been permitted up past eight. 

“This one time,” Rosie warned. “Straight to bed when you start yawning.”

The children had more questions, Merry the largest contributor. “Especially about horses! I want a great big horse for my birthday!” He squirmed finally into silence when Legolas said he would show him his horse tomorrow.

In the unusual quiet, Legolas inspected the Red Book on the pedestal. Gimli fiddled with the dragon-shaped paperweight and concluded it was of at most 2950 Erebor make. 

But the children did not thrive in quiet. Rose-lass shortly spoke up: “Mr. Legolas, how old are you?” 

Legolas’ finger, running down a page, paused. He smiled. “That, dear one, is a Secret.”

“Oh!” 

Gimli whispered, “He doesn’t know.”

“Guess!” Merry yipped.

“Don’t be rude, Merry!” said Elanor, half horrified, half curious. 

“Perhaps… perhaps…” Legolas looked around, as though hoping for a simple comparison to pop out and introduce itself. “More, at least, than the age of the Shire inhabited by hobbits.”

The Gamgees frowned. 

“That a-hundred?” said Merry. 

“_No_, two,” said Rose in an imperious tone. 

“But older than Granpapa Gamgee was?” said Merry, undaunted, looking at Legolas.

“Certainly, and certainly older than even Master Dwarf here…”

As Gimli began his reply, Sam and Rose entered with the dog, who padded in the most direct line for the dwarf. Pippin yawned from a chair that had been made with wider hobbits in mind. 

Sam noticed Legolas standing over the book. “We read the Red Book on special occasions, and I believe this is one as ever will be. What part would you like to hear?” 

Legolas left the pedestal to plop on the floor amid the young Gamgees. “The beginning, naturally!” 

The wolfish Legolas-dog had rooted himself on the hearth, one eye on Gimli’s stocking. 

“Aragorn wants a copy,” said Gimli, relocating his feet, while his hand made its unconscious way behind the hound’s ears. 

“Yes, I had hoped to make one…” said Sam. He had always felt uncomfortable that only one Red Book existed. If something happened, and there were countless things… so he always checked that all the candles were extinguished and the windows were stuck tight. The room was, in fact, the only door in the house he locked when the family went out. Elanor had offered to start copying the book and practiced her script every night on scrap parchment to prove it. 

“I want to fill the last pages first,” said Sam. “Only, I’m not as clever at putting together words as Mr. Frodo is. It’d make for an unfit end, if you understand me.”

“Nonsense!” said Legolas. “I’ve read some of your additions. They are loyal to what Bilbo and Frodo began. But they could stand well even on their own – you’ve a honed insight and you express it without clutter.” 

Sam’s face burned, feeling pleased though he knew Legolas was only being polite. 

He took his place by the pedestal and cleared his throat. They looked up at him, wide-eyed and motionless. For the next hour, Sam’s clear, strong reading voice was the only sound to be heard, excepting the gentle snores of Pippin. 

He ended at a likely place. Then Rosie was off to bed with the children. They complained, silencing only at Sam’s look. As they shuffled off Merry made the elf and dwarf promise not to vanish overnight. 

Pippin needed to be carried by his dad. Sam hastened back to the study, and in a barrage of ink wrote letters to Masters Meriadoc and Peregrin, then remembered the unfinished letter to Ordin Burrows and whisked on the address. 

He did not notice that Legolas had vanished until the elf returned to the room to announce, “The clouds have fled, all but the most stubborn.”

He intended to go out. Gimli protested loudly. 

“I know how not to be seen.” Legolas had the old Lórien cloak in hand. Gimli did not find that to be a compelling case. 

“Well, Gimli,” said Sam, sealing the last letter. “This has been an extraordinary day. I think a smoke is in order.”

A grin slipped past Gimli’s grumbles. 

The hobbit and dwarf settled themselves on the porch, an ample supply of Old Toby at hand. As Legolas had said, wispy clouds frisked over the stars and were growing steadily more disperse. The air was wet and clear. A sweet scent drifted from the wet earth. Not a blade of grass stirred. It was a primeval stillness, broken only by the gentle snap of distant doors closing. 

Sam’s thoughts skipped around the evening’s events as he looked at the flickering stars. At last he took a deep breath and let them out. “What are you doing here? In truth, Gimli?” 

Gimli chomped his pipe-stem and didn’t answer. 

They saw Legolas’ cloaked head weave out of view behind some hedges. “Off to sleep in a tree,” said Gimli, snorting smoke. “Elves.” He turned his face to Sam. “Never argue with their whims. Just hang on and don’t look.”


	3. Roots and Seeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pleased that this pulled together about in time for DoS. (Did the midnight show. Amazing. Kili likes redheads? Excellent, excellent. Benedict Cumberbatch tries to eat Martin Freeman? Yes, please. Put me too under your dragon-spell.)  
> Anyway.  
> I didn’t really, quite, exactly forget to update for three years. What happened was… stuff. I am grateful to all of you who stuck around! I have treasured every comment!

Though the whiff of frying sausages and bacon was enough to coax Sam to start up from his pillow and kick off the sheets, the flash of memory for whom breakfast was being fried sped the process. For if Rosie kept to her morning ritual of dressing, fixing her hair, fire-stoking, readying his washing things, laying out his shirt, checking the children’s rooms, and starting breakfast, it was 8 o’clock and he, Sam, the host, had overslept. That was terrible. He had thought he could make it to the post-office and back by breakfast. But as it was – he pushed his right arm into his sleeve – he would hardly make it – he snapped secure his breaches – to the first skillet of bacon.

Then, he remembered, sighing at his image in the looking-glass as he buttoned his favorite green vest, Frodo-lad needed to be dealt with. Guests needed to be kept entertained. He felt that it was not proper to subject them too much to the children’s whims. 

He took a deep breath to compose himself and left the bedroom. The hole was quiet, except for the chatter and laughter emanating from the dining room. 

There they all sat: Gimli and Merry cocking their heads back and laughing, Legolas holding Elanor, Rose-lass, and Pippin captive with some story, Ham hiccupping on Rosie’s lap. And sitting at Gimli’s left side, now being warmly addressed by the dwarf, was Frodo-lad. 

Sam started, deciding after a quick pondering to say nothing. He gave Rosie’s cheek a peck and took his chair. Legolas-dog had the reign of the under-table and needed to inspect Sam’s toes before he was permitted to relax them. 

“Morning, Master Samwise,” boomed Gimli. 

“It is an excellent morning, Master Dwarf,” Sam agreed. 

“Daddy!” cried Elanor. “Mr. Legolas says _mellyrn_” – she pronounced the Sindarin carefully – “came from over the sea, from the Elves, and from the Elves to the men on the island Westernesse. And now we’ve one, the only one, in Middle-earth, except in Lórien.”

Sam turned to Legolas with attention. 

“The _mallorn_ that grows here is blessed!” said Legolas. “I have tried to grow them in Ithilien without success. I thought perhaps the climate there is ill-suited. But I wonder if there is another piece that I am missing. It is said that the High-king Gil-galad received seeds of _mellyrn_ from the Men of Westernesse. When they did not sprout in Lindon he gave them to Lady Galadriel. From her comes this one to you – am I right?”

“Oh yes, dear Legolas! The Lady gave me a box of soil from her garden, you remember? When finally we came home we found that Saruman’s men had cut and burned many of the most beautiful of the Shire’s trees, even the Party Tree! It makes me mad as a hornet to remember, even now! 

“Well, I was torn up, and thought no-one of my children or grandchildren would ever see the Shire as it ought to be. And that is when Mr. Frodo reminded me of the Lady’s box. I opened it, and there, in the soil, was also a single silver seed. We planted saplings for all the trees lost, and to help them along, I sprinkled a pinch of the soil on each of them. The Lady knew what she was about – the saplings took off and are growing beauti-fuller still than those before! Last of all I planted the silver seed where the Party Tree once stood. And there it grew into the finest _mallorn_-tree. Magnificent as any I’d seen in Lórien, if I may say so.” He could not keep pride from his voice. “But it is a pity she cannot do the same for you,” he added solemnly. “She went on the ship with Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo.” 

“I see,” said Legolas. Sam thought he seemed downcast. “But her gift found a more worthy receiver in you, who asked for it not. I want it only for my own delight. You shared it with the Shire. And now a _mallorn_ grows here, where before Gil-galad failed. Happiest of gardeners are you, Samwise! For you prosper over even Gil-galad, last high-king of the elves east of the sea. And here in the very land that was once a province of his kingdom!” This thought seemed to amuse him, and his good mood rekindled. Sam, on his part, was blushing.

“Oh! Elves lived here?” breathed Elanor. “When was that?” 

“Very long ago, in the Second Age. (Yes, before even my time, Lady Elanor). The kingdom ended when Gil-galad died by Sauron’s hand, in the same battle, as you know, that Isildur claimed the Ring.”

“I remember hearing songs about Gil-galad and the age before the Great War, from Mr. Bilbo and the elves in Rivendell. They hinted that this once was elvish land, never containing a great city or anything of the kind, but always a sort of pass-through place, a place for farms and great gardens, where folk might rest before heading toward the White Towers,” said Sam. “Begging your pardon, Legolas, you seem more concerned with lore than you once were.” He recalled Legolas had been a practical fellow, more knowledgeable in battle and surviving in the wilderness than in old tales and wisdom outside the Northern Wood-elf sort, certainly less than Master Elrond or some of the elves in Rivendell. 

“Now that I have sworn to lay down my bow, I need new pursuits. Lore-gathering would be one. Aragorn desires to gather all the knowledge and lore he can and record it in writing. To this end he plans to build a great library in the White City and have the ancient tomes in the Steward’s library translated, available to anyone who cares to peruse them. The brothers Elladan and Elrohir have moved much of the written lore from Rivendell. Queen Arwen has been deciphering Adûnaic script.” 

“Oh, Daddy,” exclaimed Elanor. If her eyes could shine more, they would be suns. “We must finish a copy of the Red Book for King Elessar.”

“Well, Ellie,” said Sam. “I think your script is near up to the task!”

“Aragorn would prize a history of the Shire people. On the history of Dúrin’s folk I have been interviewed by one the king’s lore masters, for Gimli is too often too occupied in his caverns…”

Gimli stirred himself from a deep discussion on magic doors with Frodo-lad to say, “I will get no more involved than I am! It is Legolas and Aragorn’s pet venture.” 

Legolas, ignoring him, said softly, “What is there to know about dwarves?” And louder, “What is there to know about elves? I found that perhaps I knew just as little about both. So while we are here so far west, we shall collect what lore we can. Especially fruitful, I hope, will be Mithlond, where Lord Círdan is said to still dwell.” 

“He was there twelve years ago,” said Sam. “I hope you will find him there still!”

Legolas was silent, but his eyes sparkled.

“We’re still gonna see your horse, Mr. Legolas. Right? Are we?”

“Merry, chew and swallow before you speak,” said Rosie. 

Merry tried to obey.

“Fear not, Merry.” Legolas winked. “Directly after breakfast!” Legolas piled his plate with fried tomatoes, biscuits, and sausages. Gimli, not to be outdone, piled his too.

___

Sam pushed back his plate well before the elf and dwarf. He excused himself and fetched his hat and the three letters for Pippin, Merry, and Ordin Burrows. As he touched the knob to the front door, he felt a wet bump against his back. There panted Legolas-dog, beseeching with round brown eyes. “Very well, very well, come along,” said Sam, holding open the door for the hound.

Now almost nine o’clock, the last mists were shredding over the Water. The storm had left the air smelling damp and earthy and the ground rife with mud-holes, some already drying and cracking under the sun. It was hot for a May morning and sweat trickled down Sam’s neck as he marched down Hill Lane to the Hobbiton-Bywater post-office. Watching Legolas-dog dart his nose from rock to shrub to stick made Sam pant for breath. 

Old Farmer Maggot had, while Mr. Frodo was still living with them, sent a generous basket of mushrooms each autumn. This tradition continued 13 years on. When Mr. Frodo left, Maggot had taken especially to the younger Frodo, and on his eighth birthday the farmer had given the lad one of his hound’s pups. Rosie had been alarmed at first as the already massive animal grew into a monstrous fanged creature, but now Rosie never went to the market without him padding at her side. He was useful for keeping away the majority of unwelcome visitors, though anyone who knew the Gamgees well knew Legolas-dog was harmless. Kittens, an old scar on Sam’s right hand protested, were more dangerous.

He entered the post-office, bidding the postman good morning, and handed him his three letters. He was startled by an _Oi!_ and there, behind Sam, holding a thick packet on which Sam could read sideways _Mayor Gamgee, Bag End,_ huffed Ordin Burrows. 

Legolas-dog gave Ordin a slobbery greeting. He had come by the Gamgee household enough times to be a Familiar. 

Ordin brushed past the dog impatiently. “Mr. Mayor! Listen, you must listen this time!”

“What must I hear that you haven’t told me already?” 

“The old Chubb is up to no good – I am telling you.”

“As I have told you before,” said Sam in the commanding tone he had once reserved for Gollum. “Family quarrels are not my concern.”

“As I have told you,” countered Ordin in his own authoritative voice. “This may well be beyond a _quarrel._”

The postman, discomfited and rubbing his hands together, looked from one bristling hobbit to the other. “See now, gentlehobbits, take this outside so I can see to the other customers.”

There were no other customers, but Sam and Ordin took the hint. 

Once outside, Ordin took up his case with renewed passion. He hopped and flushed as he spoke. 

“Come with me, then, to the old man Chubb! I’ll show you. Just speak with him, and you’ll be convinced as me that something queer is up!”

“I have guests today and cannot be away long,” said Sam. 

But still, to get the young hobbit off his back was tempting. Ought he? Martimus Chubb was not too far; it would take them under an hour to walk there, talk (if the old hobbit would even talk), and come back.

Ordin’s imperious manner melted, and desperation took its place. “Please, Mr. Mayor! It will not be long! Just come talk to him. If you’re right, you’re right! If not…”

Sam then began to wonder whether he really was being thick-headed in ignoring the youth. If there were indeed some queer goings-on he would be culpable for having refused to take action. He exhaled. “All right, then, Mr. Burrows. Lead the way.”

They walked down Bywater Road in silence. The sun had baked the damp air into a stifling blanket. The grass on the wayside wilted into the road. The few insects remaining above ground chirped half-heartedly. Sam wiped his brow with his handkerchief and shook his head in wonder at the energy of the dusky-colored hound, who bounded all over the path ahead. Only when they got about up to the mailbox of Martimus Chubb did the creature pause to growl at some rabbit in the hedge, and then quickly padded on after the two hobbits. 

Sam tucked the handkerchief back into his right pocket. He felt something bump his leg. He looked around expecting to see Legolas-dog’s snout. Instead he spied at his feet a mottled yellow lump.

“Is that… a potato?” he asked. 

He was answered with another small tuber on his thigh. Ordin took a radish to his chest. 

They finally rounded the rose hedges enough to see a late middle-age hobbit, with a scowl like a ditch dug in his features. He sat on a battered wooden chair on the porch before his front door. A basket of tubers sat at his feet, in easy reach. 

“Hello, Mr. Chubb! I am Mayor Gamgee. I hoped to have a word…” 

A potato dropped from Martimus’ hand. He settled back into his chair and grunted, one eye on the wolfish hound. 

“Well, go on, have your word.”

Sam took two steps forward onto the stone footpath. Legolas-dog sat at his side. Sam then noticed Ordin was nowhere to be seen. All this trouble trying to get Sam to come and he vanishes! And Martimus had evidently not seen him. In spite of his annoyance over the young Burrows, he kept talking with a pleasant face. 

“Your roses are getting on fine this year, Mr. Chubb.”

An impatient grunt.

“Fond of rose hedges, I am, easy to keep and pretty too.”

An ambiguous grunt. 

“How’s the leaf trade?”

“Been better years, been worse.”

“Ah, well. Weather this month has been spotty, but there’s room yet for a good season. I have not heard much from your son of late. Is he here?”

“Inside. Sick. Down with a cold.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Wish him well from me.”

An indifferent grunt, followed by a moment of stilted silence.

“Well, Gamgee, I’ve work to be gettin’ on.”

“Of course. Good day, Mr. Chubb!”

Martimus did not reply in kind, and the interview was over. Sam and Legolas-dog turned back down the road toward the Hill. Sam looked at the saplings he had planted – saplings no longer – their full boughs dipping as though to acknowledge an old friend. He felt his mood rise. At a quarter of the way, the dog woofed and bounded with a happy whine onto Ordin, who had crashed out of the weeds and stumbled into the road.

“Where have you been, Mr. Burrows?” said Sam, pulling the jubilant animal back. 

Ordin brushed stickers from his sleeves. He was flushed as much from running as from excitement. “I had a look in Adulfus’ room while you kept the old Chubb distracted.” 

Sam coughed, too dumbfounded to speak. 

“And it is just as I feared. Adulfus has not been in the house, and from the dust and staleness of his room, not for some weeks. He has vanished, and the old Chubb knows where!”

“First,” said Sam, regaining his voice. “First, you must know that I am disquieted by your behavior, to enter another hobbit’s home like some thief!”

Ordin puffed up to protest.

Sam held up a hand. “But I let it pass this time, for Martimus Chubb is assuredly the most impossible hobbit in the West Farthing to deal with, and left you with little choice.”

“Then anyway, Mayor, you now know that I have never gotten the truth for the many times that I have asked and asked to see Adulfus, and of his health and his whereabouts. You _must_ convince him to speak now.”

“My suspicions still rest on the likeliest answer: Adulfus ran off and his father is too angry and ashamed to let word of it out.”

“Adulf would not run off, not without telling _me_,” Ordin cried. “And when you hear the rest of it, you’ll agree the business is darker than that. Aldulf and his father argued often over the old Chubb’s alliance with Lotho. Adulf told me he would get angry something fierce, his father worse. There may have been a time that the old Chubb got angry enough to … to …” Ordin would not finish. 

“I do not believe that,” Sam said sharply. “Even in those days no hobbit killed another hobbit, and that will not start now.”

“Well, yes, I suppose. But I have still one more theory… Ted Sandyman, the old miller, you know, was ruined after you Travelers returned and brought peace back. (I was just a lad, but I remember!) His wife was the old Chubb’s sister and their only child Lily inherited nothing from her destitute father after his death five years back. But she is next in line for her uncle Martimus’ substantial assets, after Adulf. She might have blackmailed him somehow… convinced him to break with his father, so the inheritance goes to her…”

“That is just as absurd,” Sam asserted. “She is unpleasant, but not scheming.” 

They had come to the crossroad of Bywater Road and Hill Lane. 

“I will have the truth out, Mr. Mayor,” said Ordin. “The old Chubb or Miss Sandyman knows it. And it is not pleasant, I’ll warrant. And no matter the reason, it remains that Adulfus is unaccounted for.” 

They parted ways.

___

It was near ten-thirty now. Sam was sticky with sweat and looking forward to changing his clothes and sitting down to a late second breakfast, for he had worked up an appetite.

He was not in the least prepared to deal with Miss Lily Sandyman. 

She was panting down the path from the Hill, evidently from Bag End itself. 

“Mr. Mayor!” she said in a tone a queen might use to address her footman. She wore a yellow dress cut in the latest fashion and carried a sun-umbrella, as yellow as her dress. If she were not so unpleasant, with a frown that never curled upright, she would be pretty. “Mr. Mayor, I must speak with you.”

“What is it you need, Miss Sandyman?” said Sam. He kept the hound firmly in check. 

“It is about Ordin Burrows. That one is a great busy-body and fabricator, and I advise you to use discretion when listening to the tales he tells.”

“I use discretion where I believe discretion due,” said Sam. 

“I am glad, then.”

“Good day, Miss Sandyman.”

But she lingered on. “There is one more matter, Mr. Mayor. A most serious one. There is word that a Big Person was sighted in Hobbiton. The Shire’s laws need to be upheld. My best wishes as you investigate.” And she walked on past him, without a further word. 

Sam was thoughtful the rest of the way home. He came to Bag End’s white gate before he knew it. 

Above on the hill, the _mallorn_ shimmered in a light breeze, its golden leaves dappling the silver bark with iridescent shadows. The rustling of leaves sounded like a thousand soft chimes. The tree never failed to take Sam’s breath away. He was indeed fortunate! It was too great a gift for him. He really believed the Lady meant it to be shared. If he had kept it and all the soil to himself in a secret garden, and let no one ever see, he doubted the tree would have prospered. Legolas’ words at breakfast fortified that inkling. 

He entered his home. The hound padded down the hall, Sam suspected, in search of Gimli’s stockings. The master of Bag End’s first stop was the kitchen, where he found Rosie and Elanor scrubbing potatoes. The sight of the roots made him smile. 

“Anything left from breakfast?” he asked. 

“I saved a biscuit and a few rashers of bacon,” said Rosie. “Oatcakes and preserves will be for elevenses and chicken and greens for a cold luncheon.”

“I may wait for elevenses, then, for I can never have enough room for your oatcakes.” 

Rosie looked down to the potatoes, but Sam could still see her pleased smile. 

“What will these be for?” he asked of the potatoes. 

“For dinner. To be diced, boiled, and coated with butter, garlic, and rosemary,” said Rosie.

“My favorite,” said Sam.

“Your recipe.”

“Will I be allowed in the kitchen tonight?”

“No, dear Samwise, you stay with your friends.” She firmly pressed him out. “But you may make breakfast tomorrow,” she added slyly.

Both loved the kitchen, and the greatest strain on their marriage was who would cook when. Had circumstances been less extraordinary this would have been his day to prepare the afternoon meals. 

Sam exited the kitchen just as Legolas entered the hall from the direction of the cellar.

“Legolas, you need to be more careful,” said Sam, smiling to show he joked. “You were seen by someone.”

Legolas stood silent for a thoughtful moment. 

A little explosion transpired behind the elf. “Mess, all over, Dad! Hay everywhere!” shouted Merry, thrilled beyond containment. He ran around the elf to his father and tugged his arm, hopping all the while. 

“Someone was searching your stables,” said Legolas. “I do not think anything was taken, nor any beast harmed. Come see!” 

Rosie heard the excited voices and came in to investigate, followed by Gimli and the other children. She gasped at their news. “Someone was prowling about the stables?”

“Do not worry, Mistress Rose,” said Gimli. “We will investigate and have the matter settled. Legolas, Sam, and I have dealt with worse.” The dwarf could call forth the most comforting voice, and soon she calmed enough to return to her tasks.

Sam told the children to stay inside, silencing Merry’s protests with a look, and followed Legolas and Gimli around the yard, to the back of the hill, where stood a small stable, just large enough for six animals and a wagon. A fence enclosed the pasture behind it. 

Hay was flung about in chunks, as though someone had expected to find something underneath it. Sacks of oats were sliced open and buckets lay on their sides. If the animals had been distressed, they did not show it now. Gimli’s long-haired pony and Legolas’ dappled grey horse nibbled at the mess in content. Old Bill, who was truly quite ancient and shrunken, stood silent and sleepy. 

“Why would someone bother to search in here? And what for?” Sam muttered to Bill. The venerable pony gazed with drowsy affection at Sam as the hobbit rubbed his muzzle. Those two know more than they’re letting on, he added to himself, and decided to force it out of them before the day was done. 

Gimli sighed, as though he had heard Sam’s thoughts. 

“Our culprit is a woman.” Legolas led Sam around to the pasture. Several footprints were pressed neatly in the mud. “They are too large for the children, and I do not believe Lady Rose stood here since the rain of last night?”

Sam shook his head. “No, she would not have come out here. But then, who could it be?” 

He kicked at some tussled hay and stood still. “Not… Miss Sandyman…”

That made no sense. Was she so bold that she would approach Sam after digging around in his stables? (And for heavens knew why!) She had mentioned Big Folk. Had she seen Legolas’ horse and made the inference? Perhaps he was wrong and Ordin was right, and she was the blackmailing type after all. And her message was that he should stay off the case of the vanished Adulfus Chubb. 

___ ___ ___

**To be continued…**

___ ___ ___

**Author's Note:**

> Hat tip to Moth, whose beautiful portrayal of the Gamgee home in his story _Puppy Perception_ inspired this. He's got a good eye for the details of hobbits' domestic lives. His remarkable young Elanor blows me away.  
> Thank you, Moth!


End file.
